


The Cypriot Blues

by weatherfront



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-17 01:36:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13066407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatherfront/pseuds/weatherfront
Summary: The one where Arthur has a webcam, a vibrator, and a thirst for vengeance.





	The Cypriot Blues

**Author's Note:**

> (Some SUPER DUPER OLD STUFF! Written for Bina's birthday once upon a time. [Fics not posted on AO3 are still on LJ.](http://tornadobelt.livejournal.com/466.html))

Eames doesn't hear anything from Arthur for five whole days. It's time enough to settle into his hotel room, meet with all other members of his crew, assign a local tail to the mark, and figure out the three best places for souvlaki within walking distance. His closet fills with linen suits.

Still no word from Arthur, and Eames considers calling him, texting him, or even just sending him a pleasantly-worded e-mail. What is the protocol, he wonders, when what they have is too complicated to define? They've been mired in this swamp for months, neither of them any good at keeping to themselves, not knowing how to touch something without growing a little fond of it. Maybe that was what made Arthur's back stiffen, when Eames told him he would be taking a job in Cyprus. Maybe Arthur was angry at him for leaving.

_Wishful thinking,_ Eames tells himself, and squeezes a lemon out over the meat.

Eames is sitting at his laptop on the sixth day, scrolling through a list of the mark's business contacts, when an icon lights up with an incoming video chat request. It's Arthur. Reviewing the research is long and mindnumbing work, and the distraction is welcome; Eames straights his collar, angles the webcam to flatter his good side.

When he accepts the request, Arthur's face pops up, filling his entire screen.

Eames jumps before he can collect himself, and settles for a "Long time no see, Arthur," as casual as he can manage.

"Do you know why that is, Mr. Eames?" asks Arthur. "Do you know why you haven't seen me for six days?"

"Sorry," says Eames, "is this some sort of trick question?"

"Because you flew off to run your job in Cyprus, that's why," says Arthur. "When you _knew_ that I couldn't leave, because I'm stuck here until April on my own goddamn job, and you _knew_ I didn't want you to go, but you just up and left anyway, like you're so high and mighty that you don't even need me around anymore to--"

"Wait, wait, what," stammers Eames, "what do you mean, you didn't want me to go? You-- you didn't want me to go? When did you say that you didn't-- how was I supposed to know _that?_ "

"It was _obvious!_ " yells Arthur. "Were you even listening to what I said, when you told me you were going?"

"You said _Okay then,_ and went back to work!" yells Eames.

"But I said it in a clearly displeased tone of voice," yells Arthur. "You have to pay attention to these things, Eames, you fuck!"

"All right, I get it now, Jesus," says Eames, wincing. "Why the hell are you so close to the camera, anyway? It's disconcerting, it's like you're a head floating in midair, can't you--"

"Oh, I'm sorry, did you want me to pull back a little?" asks Arthur, and his hand comes up to frame the edge of the screen. Arthur's hand, connected to Arthur's arm, leading all the way up to Arthur's bare shoulder.

_Why is he--_ is as far as Eames gets, before the camera shakes and tilts downward, and the breath is knocked clean out of him like he's been punched in the gut. The laptop must be placed somewhere past the foot of the bed, and the screen fills with the cotton sheets of the bed they share, with the faint print of the wallpaper behind the headboard, with Arthur's endless legs sprawled on the bed, not a stitch of clothing on him.

"Arthur," he says, stunned, "what are you--"

"I hope you're enjoying Cyprus," says Arthur over his shoulder, shifting onto his knees with his back to the camera. "I hope you're enjoying being alone."

"No, wait," Eames barks out, "I'm sorry, look, I'm sorry about whatever it is, I didn't mean--"

Arthur ignores him completely, sliding down onto one elbow, lifting his arse up and lowering his back in a meaningful arch. God, Eames knows too well what Arthur feels like in his hands, the smooth, humming length of his body, taut and excited and eager. And when Arthur brings up a finger behind him, wet with lube, Eames reaches out for the screen, wanting to catch that hand up in his.

"What a great time you must be having," murmurs Arthur. "So am I, you know. I'm having a great time."

He splays his palm out over the swell of his arse, and Eames knows it well, the curve of flesh there. How perfectly it fits into the cup of his grasp, what it feels like to bite down on it, how it flushes and trembles when he licks, like an apology, at the angry line of marks his teeth leave behind. It's one _hell_ of an arse, nothing he would have expected from hips as slim as Arthur's, from those narrow shoulders and lean wrists-- but his arse is lush, unexpectedly full and _delicious._

Arthur teases at his hole with the tip of his finger, pressing against himself, slowly letting his own arse beg for it. He trails his finger down his cleft, slicking it bit by bit. Fuck the advanced state of modern communications technology, but the screen is clear and sharp and Eames can see everything, the way Arthur's hole twitches and responds to his little strokes, the way Arthur flinches, every so often, as he brushes across that sensitive spot.

"I can tell," says Eames, rough with want. "You look like you're having the time of your life."

Arthur laughs, but it dissolves into a gasp as he slides the finger into himself, carefully but insistently. Eames has seen Arthur finger himself before -- perhaps most notably that first time in the warehouse, when he walked in on Arthur moaning his name, bent over the cot in the side room -- but never with such painstaking deliberation, never so far away that he couldn't touch him. And there's something methodical to Arthur's movements right now, almost clinical and detached, like he's just feeling himself out, thoughtfully. And it's so improbably, impossibly hot, the way Arthur makes a curious little sound as he sinks in to the knuckle, like he's surprised, like it's the first fucking time he's ever touched himself like this.

"That's funny," says Arthur, his voice gone soft and breathy, _damn_ him-- "it turns out I don't need you to get off, after all."

He draws the finger out of himself, almost to the nail, and Eames knows what that's like. When it was his own finger working Arthur open, Arthur's arse a hot, slick grip around him, swallowing him back in. Arthur's finger glistens wet, and his cock bobs half-hard between his parted thighs.

"God, I'm so fucking tight," pants Arthur, "it's been so long, I want it so bad, want to get _fucked--_ "

Eames can't stop the impatient snarl that escapes him, and Arthur turns his head when he hears it, face peeking out from beyond the curve of his arse. His cheeks are flushed, hair falling in strands over his forehead, lips swollen like he's been biting down on them. But his eyes are bright, angry.

"How's the weather in Cyprus?" he asks. "Sunny enough for you?"

"Arthur," says Eames, "you absolute fucking--"

Arthur hisses as he slips another finger inside himself, squirming back against them, twisting them in deeper. There's a sheen of sweat across the small of his back, and Eames knows Arthur when he gets like this. When Arthur starts warming up in earnest, leaning heavy into every touch, craving more, looking nothing short of delighted wherever Eames's hands wander. Like something's coming to a boil just beneath his surface, and he needs Eames to stoke a fire, to take him just a bit further.

He shifts his wrist, and Eames knows exactly when he's found it, when the crook of his fingers presses against the nerves inside him. It's so _obvious,_ responsive as Arthur is, when all of him goes lax and that shudder runs through him, and if his face weren't turned away, Eames knows he'd see Arthur's eyes flutter closed, eyebrows knitting under the sudden shock of pleasure.

" _Oh,_ " groans Arthur, his fist on the sheets going white. "God, oh, yes."

And Eames knows Arthur when he gets like this, when he starts to give single-minded chase to that spark, rocking back into whatever's inside him, Eames's fingers, Eames's cock, angling himself and pushing back just to get more of that hot wash of feeling, prickling through his limbs. Arthur's knees are braced against the mattress, the sheets wrinkling around them as Arthur fucks himself onto his own hand, his arse clenching tight around his fingers. Eames knows him, knows the uneven spasm of his insides as Eames loosens him up, gently nudging against where he needs it so much.

But he's in Cyprus, oceans away from Arthur, and his own ragged breathing is too loud in his ears. Arthur makes small, hungry noises into the bed, now with three fingers pumping in and out of himself, pre-come snaking down the hard line of his cock. His shoulders quiver under the effort.

"Christ, Arthur, you--" says Eames, "I didn't know you wanted me to-- if I'd known, I would have--"

"Couldn't you tell?" asks Arthur. "Haven't you been able to tell, for the past three months?"

And maybe, maybe Eames _has_ been able to tell, and hasn't allowed himself to believe it. Maybe he's been denying himself the luxury of feeling wanted, telling himself that Arthur only came back to him again and again because of how close he was, how quick he was to drop his pants and offer a ready hand. But it means something when Arthur sends him to Cyprus and spends six days plotting revenge, instead of wandering out to a bar for a sloppy fuck up against the wall of a bathroom stall. It's a desultory attempt at something important, and that's something else that neither of them are good at-- letting their hearts out of their throats.

Eames feels his cock straining, even against the loose fit of his trousers. He unzips himself, palming his erection, letting his head thunk against the backrest of the chair.

"I want to touch you," he says. "Arthur, fuck, I'm so sorry-- if I were there--"

Arthur looks around at the camera again, and this time, there's the hint of a waver in his eyes. But then he gives his head a quick shake, mouth drawing thin, and pulls his fingers free. It leaves his arse a gorgeous, filthy mess, flushed and wet and looking so _ready_. Eames's cock jolts in the curl of his hand. What he wouldn't give to step across the chasm of their screens, the continents between them, to flip Arthur over and hook his knees up onto his shoulders, his cock sinking into him in one, clean thrust, making Arthur gasp and clutch at the sheets, sobbing his name. That long, pliant body folding nearly in half, coming apart beneath him as he moves.

"But you're not here," says Arthur, arm outstretched, reaching for something outside the screen. "You're in Cyprus."

That vibrator-- Eames hasn't ever seen Arthur use it, only knew that it was still there in the bottom drawer of the dresser, still tucked away for old time's sake. _What do I need it for,_ Arthur told him when he asked, _you're here now, aren't you?_ But he isn't, not right now, he's in Cyprus like a moron-- and Arthur drizzles the lube over the hefty length of it, coating it slick.

Eames forgets to breathe as he watches Arthur push it into himself. Prepared though he might be, it isn't an easy fit. But even as his calves tense, Arthur stretches around it, taking it and taking it, slotting it inside him, in as far as it'll go. Dimly Eames is aware that he's saying something out loud, an incoherent stream of _Arthur, my god, Arthur, talk to me, please,_ his hand flying frantic over his cock, torn between regret and a fiery, desperate want. Arthur whimpers and thrusts his arse back, the vibrator plugging him up so beautifully, sweat and lube trickling down his thighs. His hand is shaking, knocking against the vibrator as he gives it a last nudge.

"Eames," says Arthur, "I miss you, you know."

And he switches it on.

The low mechanical drone fills the speakers, and over it, Arthur's wonderful, broken moaning, his whole body wracked with tremors. He's grasping blindly at the headboard, fingers scratching against the wood, and Eames wants to be there, to be what Arthur holds onto as he struggles for breath, unable to stop the sounds slipping from him.

"Fuck, ah-- _fuck,_ " Arthur grits out, "god, Eames--"

Even like this, too angry and too stubborn to forgive him, Arthur is calling for him. Dizzy, Eames gives his palm a quick lick, pulls at his cock with long, hasty strokes.

"I'm sorry," he gasps, "if I were right there with you--"

"Eames," says Arthur, "Eames, _Eames,_ " like it's Eames's cock inside him, like it's Eames fucking him into the mattress.

Arthur's cock is hard against his stomach, the head of it damp, and the vibrator thrums in him like something alive. Arthur keeps clenching in around it, drawing it in, only for it to slip back out again as it buzzes against his insides. The rhythm of it is uncanny, seesawing in and out of him, spreading Arthur's arse wide, giving Eames the hottest, most frustrating show of his life, dear god.

"Eames, I need--" pants Arthur, "oh, _oh,_ Eames, I can't--"

He fumbles clumsily for his cock, and Eames matches his own hand to the motion of Arthur's, like he could be bringing them off together. And maybe it's a bit daft to feel so intensely jealous of an inanimate object, but Eames does anyway, as he listens to Arthur's moaning pitch higher, faster, mingled with the sound of the vibrator. Arthur's elbow has long since given out, and he's brilliant in abandon, dark hair spilling out over the sheets, letting the vibrator fuck him helpless.

"Arthur," he says, "I wish I could just--"

"I-- Eames, please," says Arthur, swallowing unsteadily, "I need to-- Eames, tell me-- tell me to--"

_He's trying to say something,_ Eames realizes.

"What is it," he asks, "what do you need? What do I tell you?"

"Tell me," says Arthur, "tell me to come--"

Oh, Jesus fucking Christ, it makes _Eames_ nearly come right then and there, the raw need in Arthur's plea, too far gone to insist anymore on his designs of vengeance. Arthur thumbs at the slit of his cock, fingers running all along his shaft, and even with the vibrator filling him up, he can't seem to come without Eames there to push him over the edge. Eames squeezes at the base of his own cock until the immediate urge plateaus, until he can see straight again.

"Do you--" says Arthur, "do you miss me? Tell me you--"

"God, yes," breathes Eames, "I miss you, I never should have left, and when I get back I'm going to do everything to you, going to bend you right over the kitchen table and eat your gorgeous arse out, fuck you with my tongue until I've wrecked you, until you come so hard you stain the wood, and every time you look at that table, it'll turn you hot inside your skin to think of me, with my tongue in your arse, licking you until you fall apart."

"Fuck," says Arthur, "I need, I--"

"Come for me," says Eames, "do it for me, darling--"

" _Eames,_ " gasps Arthur, and shatters to pieces, going so tight as he comes that the vibrator just hums in place, making him ride it out. The sound of his name on Arthur's lips drives Eames right over, and he comes in thick spurts into his hand, vision turning hazy-- watching Arthur shudder and go limp onscreen, collapsing onto his side, legs trembling with the aftershocks.

Arthur flicks the remote and the sound of the vibrator dies away, everything suddenly so still, only the harsh echo of their breathing from either side of the laptop screen. Eames lets out a long rush of air, uncurls his sticky hand from his cock.

"Jesus fuck," he says.

Arthur coughs and reaches behind himself, tensing as he slides the vibrator out, still tender off of his orgasm. He rolls onto his back, streaks of come caught in the trail down to his cock. So flushed and loose, and Eames is swept up with the urge to kiss him. Instead, he holds up a thumb to the monitor of his laptop, swiping across the blur where Arthur's mouth is.

"Maybe," says Arthur, quiet, "I should have told you, instead of--"

"Pick me up at the airport tomorrow," says Eames. "I'm coming home."

Oceans away in Cyprus, and Eames can still somehow hear the silent warmth in Arthur's smile.


End file.
